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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886573">little mermaid</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge'>thefudge</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Real Person Fiction, Taylor Swift (Musician)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amnesia, F/F, Gothic, Mildly Dubious Consent, ost: frank ocean - nikes feat. kohh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:54:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,292</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886573</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey…are you all right?”</p><p>Your eyes blink open. The sky is a sunny-side-up egg, bright yellow in the middle.</p><p>No, that’s a person.</p><p>(or Taylor finds you on her private beach in Rhode Island and you don't remember how you got there)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Taylor Swift/Original Female Character(s), Taylor Swift/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>little mermaid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>no lie, this story came to me a few hours ago like a fever dream (inspired accidentally by @irresistible-revolution lol)<br/>i have more RPFs to write, but this one gripped me by the throat until i got it done.<br/>if you're a huge tswift fan, this may be weird for you. it's not an unflattering portrayal, not exactly, but it's really off-kilter and weeeeiiiird. but also maybe 100% accurate? i stand by both possibilities. enjoy (?)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I think I fell in love with you when you were shouting at Romeo and Juliet, 'Don't touch each other!'”<br/>
― <strong>Iris Murdoch, </strong><strong>The Sea, The Sea</strong></p><p> </p><p>We out by the pool, some little mermaids<br/>
Me and them gel<br/>
Like twigs with them bangs<br/>
Now that's a real mermaid</p><p>
  <strong>frank ocean – nikes feat. kohh</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Here you are, and here is the sea.</p><p>Between you and the sea is only your feet. Oh yes, you don’t think of your feet as an extension of yourself. Not at first. Your feet feel tacked on. An afterthought.</p><p>You forgot; are human bodies supposed to have feet?</p><p>You wriggle your toes in the wet sand. Briny water laps between the toes. There’s an itch you can’t scratch. You can’t remember how you got here. You can’t remember if here was always where you were. Were you born in the sea? No, that can’t be right. You must’ve had a mother and father. Everyone does, except Jesus. You remember Jesus.</p><p>But little else.</p><p>You wish you knew your name.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Hey…are you all right?”</p><p>Your eyes blink open. The sky is a sunny-side-up egg, bright yellow in the middle.</p><p>No, that’s a person.</p><p>A very pale-looking woman, translucently beautiful, lithe and glowing. She looks down at you. She’s holding a cat on a leash. The cat doesn’t like the beach from the way it’s trying not to touch the sand.</p><p>Funny, aren’t cats supposed to like sand? That’s where they…you know…</p><p>You’re about to tell this woman how cats poop, but you stop yourself.</p><p>“Can you hear me?” she asks again.</p><p>“Yes,” you manage after a while. Your throat is parched.</p><p>“Do you need help getting up?” the woman asks. She signals to a buff-looking dude posing casually a few feet away to come pick you up. His black T-shirt is aggressively stuck to his abdomen and he looks ready to tackle you.</p><p>You roll over with a groan, trying to run back into the sea.</p><p>Idiot.</p><p>“Hey, hey…it’s okay,” the blond woman calls out, reaching out with a tentative hand. To slap you or caress you, you don’t know.</p><p>“This is my private beach, is all. I don’t know how you got here,” she explains as you stand in knee-high water.</p><p>“I don’t know how I got here either,” you say, looking down in shame. Fuck, what happened to your last brain cells? </p><p>“Who are you?” you ask the blonde, hoping her name might jog your memory.</p><p>Her round mouth becomes rounder, if possible. She looks stunned.</p><p>“You don’t know who I am?”</p><p>You shake your head, lost. Is she your sister or something? <em>Should</em> you know her?</p><p>No, she doesn’t look like a sister.</p><p>The slender beauty wades into the water with you.</p><p>“Have you ever heard my name?”</p><p>She gives you her name. Taylor can be a boy’s name or a girl’s name and it doesn’t convey much meaning to you. It reminds you of a matriarch’s name in a soap opera about fashion moguls. Swift is an adjective; it means something or someone who is very fast. She doesn’t look that fast, though she does have legs for days. The whole moniker feels like a made-up internet name. You remember the internet, at least.</p><p>Taylor laughs.  “Oh my God.”</p><p>You duck your head.</p><p>She reaches out, again, almost touching you but not quite.</p><p>“I’m sorry. Why don’t you come up to my house? We can get you hydrated. You look like you need it.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Her kindness is remote. <em>We can get you hydrated.</em></p><p>She keeps smiling back at you as she walks ahead. You figure those are her bodyguards walking behind you. One of them is walking very close, making sure you don’t trip. Your legs are still fragile. You realize now it’s very early in the morning.</p><p>Taylor sets her cat loose from the leash.</p><p>You watch the fat little thing scurry across the sand towards the rocks in the distance.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” she says, “we’ll find Meredith Grey back at the house. She always returns.”</p><p>“Isn’t that from a TV Show?” you ask, feeling like you’re about to have a stroke.</p><p>Her face lights up. “Yes! I love Ellen Pompeo. Do you like <em>Grey’s Anatomy</em>?”</p><p>You feel dizzy and hateful. You hope the cat doesn’t make it home.</p><p>Your legs give in and you collapse in the bodyguard’s arms. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next time you wake up, it smells like bath salts.</p><p>The room is wallpapered with straw. That’s what it looks like to you. Like someone plastered straw mats all over the walls. In the middle of the room there is a hole in the floor and a few dainty steps lead to a pool of water. The water looks green. There are lilies floating on the surface. Taylor sits with her legs inside the pool, dressed in an oversize sweater with one shoulder showing. Her hair is twisted in braids.</p><p>You lift yourself from the ornamental couch. There is a bottle of Evian next to your head, half-drunk, and a vinaigrette turkey salad on the very low coffee table at your feet. You have to crouch to pick it up.</p><p>“You’re awake?” she asks, smiling at you.</p><p>You put your head in your hands. You fear it’s about to roll off your neck. The room is still spinning.</p><p>“Do you want to come sit with me here? It's my Lotus Pool. It helps when you're feeling anxious. Bring your salad.”</p><p>Her voice is so soft, like a kitten on her first meow. But there is something vaguely implicit in it.  She knows you’re going to listen to her, because only she knows the way out of this room. You haven’t seen a door yet.</p><p>You drag yourself to the pool in the floor and you slump down on the steps. You look down at yourself. Bare legs, the calves caked in sand. Bare arms, tanned. You’re wearing a one-piece suit, black and white with salt. You’ve been almost naked this entire time.</p><p>You hold your salad gingerly atop your knees. You hold your toes above water.</p><p>Taylor smiles at you.</p><p>“Stretch a little. Make yourself at home. I made the salad, by the way.”</p><p>You take a few bites.</p><p>“It’s pretty good,” you say, shifting your butt on the warm tiles.</p><p>“I can make pancakes later.  Do you like pancakes?”</p><p>“I don’t remember,” you say, because at this moment, you’re not sure.</p><p>“Do you remember who you are?”</p><p>You shake your head. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s not your fault,” she says, blue eyes full of a sadness she has no business with. “Something traumatic must have happened to you. I’m going to call my doctor. She’ll come by and see you.”</p><p>“Shouldn’t I go to the hospital?”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s safe to make hospitals trips right now. There’s a pandemic going on, you know.”</p><p>“A pandemic?”</p><p>Taylor lifts her hand to her mouth. “Oh boy. This is going to be rough for you.”</p><p>You wonder if this pretty stranger is lying to you, or teasing you in some obscure way.</p><p>“I’ll get you up to speed. Let me grab my iPad,” she says, standing up quickly. “Eat up.”</p><p>As she walks past you, she touches the back of your hair.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She tells you the police aren’t welcome in her home. No, she won’t call them. She doesn’t want to support violent aggressors. She’s going to make private inquiries about you.</p><p>For now, you should relax. Have a good night’s sleep. Her doctor will see you in the morning.</p><p>You step inside the guest bedroom. There are opal throw pillows everywhere, wooden baskets filled with herbs and sprigs and little cotton towels for your face. Everything smells like minerals and freshly mowed grass. There’s a selection of New Yorker issues on the nightstand and a “comic novel” by one Taffy Brodesser-Akner.</p><p>“I’m sure you’re looking forward to a hot shower, but I would suggest taking a bath instead,” Taylor tells you. She opens the door to your bathroom and steps inside. You watch her disappear. You hear her going through the cabinets, making sure everything is as should be. You shiver. You’re still wearing this stupid bathing suit.</p><p>“Come on in,” Taylor calls out.</p><p>Something about her voice in the other room makes your hair stand up. But you go to her.</p><p>She has already turned on the water for a bath in the large enameled steel tub.</p><p>She sits on the edge of the tub.</p><p>“You’re lucky you’re so pretty. I couldn’t pull off a one-piece like that.”</p><p>You look down at yourself. It’s a good body, all things considered. The cellulitis adds character. You look up at her and say, “What are you talking about? You’re ridiculously beautiful.”</p><p>Taylor looks away quickly like a startled little chick, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Oh my gosh, stop. I’m pretty gross, in fact. You don’t even know.”</p><p>“I doubt it.”</p><p>“Seriously, I sometimes don’t shave for days.”</p><p>“Your leg hair must be very light, though, so it doesn’t matter,” you say and you’re surprised at the calmness of your voice.</p><p>Taylor laughs, face crinkling. “Nooo, it’s not light everywhere.”</p><p>She crosses her legs.</p><p>You don’t know what to say to that.</p><p>Taylor clears her throat. “All right, I’ll leave you to it. Holler if you need any help. My bedroom is right down the hall.”</p><p>You say thank you and watch her leave, but you don’t undress until you can’t hear her steps anymore.</p><p>It’s not like you think she’ll try to spy on you, but something about her tells you never to be naked around her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Her doctor spends more time with Taylor than with you. She only asks you a few standard questions, checks your eyesight, looks down your throat and makes you touch your toes. After that, she disappears to confer with Taylor.</p><p>They hold a hushed conference in the foyer below as you stand on the landing and try to hear what they’re saying. Her doctor writes her a prescription. They kiss the air around their cheeks. She leaves.</p><p>“She’ll come back in a few days to check on you,” Taylor tells you when she spots you on the landing. “But she’s prescribed some nausea medication. She also suggested some vitamins and supplements to get your memory going. We’re gonna take good care of you.”</p><p>Who's we, you wonder? </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The house is quiet and almost always empty. It’s the only one standing on this promontory. You can barely see the next house over a rocky kill.</p><p>She says you get closer to your neighbors when there’s fewer of them. </p><p>Each solid, sturdy wing is covered in different wallpaper, according to her mood. Sometimes she feels “red”, she tells you. She gives you a walking tour of all four terraces facing the sunny sea. It always looks sunny from up above. Your room’s windows face the gravel driveway. She tells you about the history of the house, how it used to belong to an heiress who married rich. She tells you she wrote a song about it. Do you want to hear it?</p><p>“So, you’re a musician?”</p><p>It feels stupid that you didn’t ask this before, but Taylor is charmed with your seeming indifference.</p><p>You expect her to play you a recording of the song, but she takes you to a special room in the house, sound-proofed and full of equipment.</p><p>“I do go to the studio whenever I can, but I’ve also moved a lot of my work here,” she explains, sitting at the control board. Then she picks up a sleek guitar.</p><p>You suddenly <em>really</em> don’t want to hear her music. You’re afraid that if you don’t like it, you won’t be able to fake the enjoyment.</p><p>Taylor seems to guess your predicament.</p><p>“You’re not obligated to like it, by the way. I want your honest feedback at the end.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The song is okay. It’s pretty harmless.  You can even tap your foot to it.</p><p>You tell her you like it.</p><p>She smiles at you in this mysterious, all-knowing way.</p><p>“Let me play it again. Maybe it’ll convince you.”</p><p>You lie back on the couch and watch her round little mouth sing the words.</p><p>You like it less the second time. Even less the third time.</p><p>She threatens to sing it a fourth time, humming the first few notes, but the horror on your face must be so evident that she laughs and drops the guitar. “Okay, okay, I’m just messing with you.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“No, don’t be. I feel you. I couldn’t bear to listen to myself forever. Do you want me to teach you some chords?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She sits behind you on the leather couch. She asks you to lean back a bit. You lean into her as she eases the guitar in your lap. You feel her solid chest behind you, far less soft than you imagined. Her arms come around you. She touches your wrists and your hands, showing you where to hold your fingers. You feel sweaty and weird. You don’t want to do this. But her touch is electric, like a fork in a socket.  It’s not a very accurate picture of Taylor, but at the same time, it’s the only one that makes sense.</p><p>You can feel her breath on the back of your neck.</p><p>“That’s it. That’s C minor. You’re a fast learner.”</p><p>You’re not a fast learner. Not even a learner. She’s just being nice. She smells of baby shampoo.</p><p>When you turn your head to look at her, her nose rubs against your cheek for a moment.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” you say, stammering a little, because her perfect face is so close. “I don’t think I’m a guitar kind of girl.”</p><p>The more you look at that face you realize its perfection is a trap. She looks like she’s allergic to crayfish. She’s puffy: eyes puffy, nose puffy, lips puffy. She looks like a delicate lemon, wrapped in expensive silks.</p><p>“I don’t think you know what kind of girl you are until you try it,” she says, puffing her face even more.</p><p>She sounds friendly, but also husky, and she moves her hips, making you aware of your bum pressed against her pelvis. She tells you these are her favorite culottes. She believes in freedom of movement, freedom of the body.</p><p>“Let’s try that again,” she says, leaning her chin against your shoulder, forcing you to focus on the guitar.</p><p>You want to say something.</p><p>You think, <em>if I was in my right mind, I’d say something. </em></p><p>But nothing bad is happening. Everything is warm and fragrant and sweet. She wants to help you.</p><p>The part where she's trying to seduce you – well, maybe she’s lonely.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She does show you videos of herself eventually. First, she scrolls through carefully curated photoshoots. The girl with soft, unprofessional curls and a guitar-strap over her shoulder, the childish nymphette whose feet never get dirty, the supermodel whose legs only go up, the debutante in sparkly red shorts, the sultry artiste leaning her head on the piano lid. You prefer the photos to the videos. In the videos, she’s too animated, too drawn in crayon. You prefer her a little static.</p><p>“You really don’t know who I am?” she asks it again. She loves the sound of this question. You keep shaking your head. You say, “Paris Hilton if she took a pottery class?” Taylor laughs with her whole mouth.</p><p>“Oh my God, you little <em>bitch</em>. You remember Paris Hilton but not me.”</p><p>You smile uneasily. You didn’t know you had this bite inside of you. Maybe you’re funny. You’re not sure.</p><p>Taylor leans forward and kisses your cheek. You almost jump.</p><p>“Jeez, you’ve never been kissed on the cheek before? See, like this.”</p><p>And she does it again.</p><p>“Like this,” she repeats. "It's pretty harmless."</p><p>Eventually, she pecks your lips, because mouths usually meet mouths, like magnets. You move your head away.</p><p>You ask if you can browse the internet for a bit, but she says that the doctor recommended you stay away from sensory overload or it might mess with your recovery.</p><p>She says she’s going to play you some ASMR videos.</p><p>You can’t even begin to understand what those are.</p><p>“Put your head in my lap,” she instructs.</p><p>You feel like crying. You put your head in her lap. You don’t know what you’re feeling. You want to get out of this fucking catalog mansion. You want to vomit on her lap. But you also like the feel of her, not entirely soft, not everywhere. There’s something both quaint and troubling about her simple desires.</p><p>“I love the texture of your hair, like the back of a brush,” she says, sinking her fingers, uninvited, down to your scalp. You shudder. Half-bad, half-good. That’s how it feels.</p><p>“Close your eyes.”</p><p>She keeps caressing your hair. The laptop is playing a video of a woman running her red nails over a ceramic mug of tea.</p><p>Taylor strokes your back, pulling your hair aside. She lifts your shirt a little and caresses your bare midriff.</p><p>“You’re like a mermaid. I found you by the ocean,” she says dreamily, like she’s writing a song.</p><p>She keeps stroking and caressing, lifting your shirt by degrees.</p><p>You arch your back, hating yourself for it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got the prettiest pussy ever,” she murmurs, stroking your mound lightly. You jump in shock and cover your face with your hands. You don’t know how to extricate yourself. You clench your legs.</p><p>Taylor parts them gently.</p><p>“Hey… look at me, mermaid. I want you to look at me. It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.”</p><p>But her eyes flash with something like impatience. She’s got you splayed on the rug for her personal benefit. The ASMR foreplay is over. She wants her fucking dinner. And you know it’s dinner because the hunger in her eyes is strange, unseemly. As if she’s been starving herself on purpose. </p><p>She confirms it a moment later. </p><p>“I just…” she trails off, kittenish, contrite, “mommy hasn’t had any pretty pussy in such a long time.”</p><p>You stare at her.</p><p>What the fuck? </p><p>“<em>Please</em> don’t use that baby voice,” you say, a little hoarse.</p><p>She frowns. “What baby voice?”</p><p>“Don’t say those things like that.”</p><p>“What should I say?”</p><p>You shrug, helpless.</p><p>She winks. “Are you shaming me, mermaid? Cuz that’s not cool.”</p><p>You swallow. “I’m not shaming you. I just think – maybe silence is the best way to go.”</p><p>You can tell you pissed her off.</p><p>“I won’t be silenced in my own house.”</p><p>And part of you exhales in relief. Maybe she’ll let you get off the floor. Maybe she’ll even call a cab and send you packing.</p><p>Instead, she flips you on your belly. It’s surprising how athletic she is, how swift, if you want to be tongue-in-cheek.</p><p>The rug scratches your cheek.</p><p>Taylor grabs your hips greedily, like a child molding plasticine. She sinks her nails in the flesh until you hiss. She plants her hand at the base of your spine. Her fingers are inside of you before you can feel them.</p><p>You moan in distress.</p><p>She rubs your clit angrily, messily, giving it tiny slaps too.</p><p>You can hear her labored breath above you.</p><p>You imagine her yellow hair falling in her face.</p><p>“I can talk however way I want. If I wanna say mommy or daddy or fuck or shit or pretty little pussy I will say it,” she mutters feverishly, fingers slipping wetly in and out of you, circling your clit, rubbing, teasing and pinching. “You understand me?”</p><p>You’re paralyzed on the floor. Your hips are raised to her level to give her more access. You press your first to your mouth. You hate her fucking voice, but it also really adds something to this fucked-up moment and, not surprisingly, it’s pretty fucking easy to come.</p><p>“Yesss, baby, yesss, mermaid,” she moans, watching you come on her fingers, juices trickling down to her knuckles.</p><p>She bends down and presses a chaste kiss on your still throbbing cunt.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, she licks you clean like her cat.</p><p>She seems to enjoy licking flesh in general. You lie on your back, staring up at the ceiling. Her cheek is pressed against your thigh as she flicks her tongue back and forth.</p><p>The second orgasm is very slow, almost incidental.</p><p>When you come, it surprises her.  She grins. “Good mermaid!”</p><p>She rubs her nose against your thigh. “I’m gonna make some pancakes.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You eat together on the deck terrace. The sea is indistinguishable from the sky, even though it’s not entirely dark yet.</p><p>You shiver under the thin cardigan she’s lent you.</p><p>“Do you think we could drive into the city?” you ask, careful not to look at her.</p><p>Taylor chews thoughtfully. “The city is boring. We could go to the farmers’ market on Sunday. It’s only a few miles away. We could cycle there. Do you know how to ride a bike?”</p><p>You shrug. “I might have been able to, but I don’t remember now. Maybe I still have the muscle memory." </p><p>Taylor smiles. “Well, there you go. We have a new project for you. You’re always rediscovering things. That way you never get bored.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You’re pretty sure you’re <em>not</em> rediscovering strap-ons. This is a first. She must know that.</p><p>You hate the weird flutter in your belly when you see the ridiculous, peach-colored fake dick dangling between her skinny thighs.</p><p>“Do you want me to put it in your mouth? It’s flavored,” she says with a wink.</p><p><em>Fuck you</em>, you want to say, as you open your mouth.</p><p>She’s not making you, you keep telling yourself. But what else are you supposed to do?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“So, are you a lesbian?” you ask her, drool running down your chin. </p><p>Taylor slaps your face with her peach dick. “You wish.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m writing a song about you, mermaid.”</p><p>You point out you were found by the ocean, not inside it. The difference matters to you. You don’t want to be a sea creature. The sea feels dead to you. Not literally dead, but a kind of life you could never bear. The sea is her mouth and her fingers and her sweet-salty wetness. <em>She's</em> not the sea exactly, but her desire is. You want to reach land.</p><p>She makes you sit up on her piano. You’re afraid you’ll break something. She says you have to trust her. She helps you up on the lid. She parts your legs.  She tests your flexibility. She wants you to shift when you don’t feel comfortable anymore, but always make sure your pussy is in her line of vision. She tells you to touch yourself while she plays. You ask her if she’s done this before, if she’s made another girl sit like this.</p><p>Taylor blinks.</p><p>“I mean, you’re the first I’ve asked. I was always too embarrassed to ask my girlfriends. They, umm, they probably do masturbate,  but they'd never let me watch.”</p><p>You rest your heels on the piano keys. “Is it because I can’t remember anything? Is that why you’re not embarrassed now?”</p><p>She lifts one bare shoulder. “Your memory might come back.”</p><p>“And then what?”</p><p>She giggles suddenly. “Then I’ll have to kill you.”</p><p>You snort. “You think I’ll blab about your predilections?”</p><p>Sometimes you surprise yourself with big words. Where did you learn that one?</p><p>“I don’t want to think about that yet,” she mutters sourly. “I want to write a song. I won’t ever play it for anyone else.  Please.”</p><p>She looks seventeen and thirty-seven. You sigh. Open your legs wide.</p><p>You touch yourself experimentally, looking down at her fingers on the keys.</p><p>When you look up, she’s giving you a grateful, tearful smile.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She loves how badly you “soaked” the piano, but you swear it was just a few wet stains. She follows you in the shower. She doesn’t fuck you. She holds you from behind, leans her head on your back. You’re a little shorter than her, but right now you feel taller, or she feels smaller. She likes that.</p><p>You have a quick flash – of a man – a yacht – gleaming chrome surfaces – and suddenly you slip or he pushes you over –</p><p>Taylor squeezes you tightly.</p><p>“Tell me you’re thinking about me.”</p><p>And despite the fact that your past is probably a tiny cabinet of horrors, you feel immense pity for this very lonely, very strange girl.</p><p>“Yes,” you say, “I’m thinking about you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> All things considered, it’s safer to let her be the protagonist. She lies next to you in bed and asks if the novel by Taffy Brodesser-Akner is any good. You say you’ve read fifty pages and it’s pretty funny.</p><p>“Why’d you stop?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” You pick up the book from your nightstand.</p><p>Taylor makes her face puffy and lovable. She snuggles close to you. She’s too shy to ask you to spoon her. You tell her to come closer.</p><p>Suddenly, you feel a weight at the foot of the bed.</p><p>Meredith Grey has jumped on top of the covers. She’s trying to find a good spot to hunker down for the night.</p><p>“Weird. This is the first time I see your cat in weeks.”</p><p>“I have more than one cat.”</p><p>You blink. “You do?”</p><p>“Yeah, you just don’t notice them.”</p><p>You hum, leaning back against the pillow. Taylor places an arm around you. “Will you read me to sleep?”</p><p>You open the book and begin to read.</p><p>The cat and Taylor fall asleep at the same time. </p><p>You watch them until your eyes close too.</p><p>You don’t feel like a person anymore, but that’s okay.</p><p>Maybe you really are a mermaid.</p><p> </p>
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